Moontalk and cinnamonmilk in the limbs tonight and the storm is here hanging heavy 
and quiet as a gospel we have forgotten. Grief, moonflower that it is, blooms below in 
lower tones while drinking itself back in. The birds have learned the sacred signs for 
times like these and do not make a sound. A car passes patient as the beacon from a 
lighthouse, and the after-evening’s teeth are so wonderfully uneven.

This is when the dream bleeds through. When the summer sips us slowly as some 
ancient, aching thing. Sister in the back lot speaking with the trees like a prophet, and us 
discovering the love buried in our letters like a peach pit.